Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(29)

“I would never forgive myself if something happened to you,” he said, trailing kisses down my neck.

I gasped, placing my palms on his chest and dragging my hands downward over him. He was so solid and firm. I wanted his bare skin against mine. I wanted to press into him everywhere.

Griffin was pushing my shirt up. I was braless, and he exposed my breasts in two seconds.

He groaned, lowering his mouth to me, kissing and suckling.

I writhed under his touch.

“I want you,” he growled.

“Yes.”

He ripped off my shorts, ripped off his boxers, settled between my thighs, his mouth on mine again—furious, frenzied.

I moaned, wrapping my legs around him.

He fumbled between my legs for a second.

And then he was pushing into me, invading me, filling me up.

I sucked in breath. There really hadn’t been a lot of foreplay there, and I wasn’t quite ready for him. I winced.

If he noticed, it didn’t stop him. He made long, deep strokes, his head buried in my shoulder.

God. Had he always been that... big? I felt like he used to fit better. He was stretching me open, and he was almost too much. Ow. Maybe it was only that I hadn’t had sex in months. Had I ever gone this long without having sex?

I thought about it.

I couldn’t remember.

Wait. What was I doing thinking about this? I was having sex with Griffin again, the thing I’d wanted the most since he left me, and I was missing it because I was contemplating other stupid stuff?

He picked up his pace, hammering into me, panting against my skin.

I tried to find the rhythm of it, allow myself to feel the pleasure. It didn’t hurt anymore. I seemed to have gotten wet enough and stretched enough for him to move inside me. But I was disconnected from it, from him.

And then he suddenly grunted. Shuddered.

And stopped, going lifeless against my body.

“Sorry,” he mumbled into my neck.

What? That was it?

Griffin pushed himself up on his arms. He cringed. “It’s been a while. I really couldn’t, um, hold back any longer.”

So, what was I supposed to say to that? I touched him. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. That must have sucked for you.”

Sucked? Well... “It was fine. I don’t have to have an orgasm every time we have sex.”

He rolled off of me, drawing me into his arms. “Yes, you should. I owe you.” His hands roamed over me lazily. He yawned. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. In the morning.”

The morning, huh?

He kissed the tip of my nose, then my forehead. “My doll.”

He was asleep in minutes.

I lay in the circle of his sleeping arms for a minute, gazing at his face.

Then I got up. I pulled the covers aside and covered him up, tucking him in.

I turned off the light, intending to get back in bed with him. But as I stood over his sleeping form, looking at him in the darkness, I didn’t feel the least bit tired.

I wandered over to the window of the Holiday Inn. I peered down at the dark parking lot. My legs were shaking. I felt a tender soreness between my legs. I’d wanted...

And then, for no reason I could figure out, I started crying. I wasn’t crying because Griffin had hurt me when we had sex, and I wasn’t crying because it hadn’t been pleasurable. Those were things that sometimes happened, and they didn’t bother me.

I should have been happy. He wanted me.

And I wanted him.

But the tears were still coming, and as I cried, things were getting worse, not better. My sobs were deepening, growing louder. I tried to stifle them, shoving my fist into my mouth and biting down on my knuckles. It didn’t seem to work.

“Doll?”

Griffin’s voice from the other side of the room. I’d been too loud. I’d woken him up.

I couldn’t answer. I was crying too hard.

He got out of bed and made his way over to me. In the scant light that came in from the window, he was nothing more than a hulking shadow.

He put a hand on my shoulder.

I pulled away.

“He did do something, didn’t he?” His voice was gruff.

“No,” I said through my tears. “No, it’s not about that.”

“Then what?” he asked.

I scrubbed at my face with my hands.

“Was the sex that bad?”

I hiccupped, laughing a little. “No. No, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He drew me into his arms. “Nothing’s wrong with you, doll. Nothing at all.”

I tried to let him comfort me, but I couldn’t. I pushed him away. “You don’t really think that.”

“Of course I do.”

“You think I’m selfish,” I said. “Did that change just because some psycho tied me up and cut me?”

He didn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought,” I said.

“God, I wish you wouldn’t have brought that up,” he said.  “Me too,” I said. I took a shuddering breath, trying to calm the last of my tears. “Let’s go to bed.” I went to the other bed, the one he hadn’t gotten out of, the one that was still made, and pulled aside the covers. I slid into it alone. The sheets were cool and smooth.